Scars
by myselfonly
Summary: The story of the Winchester brothers went down to their very cores; their shared history written on their skin. Sam and Dean get a little competetive and end up revisiting old memories - bit of fluff. Rated K for a smidge of language.


**Just a little something I kind of imagined the boys getting up to; I can imagine the sort of oddness they might get competetive over.  
For anyone who was following 'Beginnings' I promise I'll update one day soon, I'm just sort of stuck with it. I've got about five ideas on where it can go and haven't picked one yet. That and the fact that I'm currently working two jobs and yeah, no spare time for fanfic unfortunately :(**

**Standard disclaimers - boys aren't mine. All is Kripke's. He does a better job of it than I do anyways.**

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There were few ways to actually, totally capture Dean's heart.

One was a finished hunt – monsters killed, victims avenged, (overly grateful) damsels saved, injuries minimal.

Another was a room paid up for a whole free day, a morning spent working off the gentle remains of a minimal hangover softened by the memories of celebrating with his little brother the night before. A pretty town in full flush of spring, a full wallet, laundry done and the sense of well being these things brought. Added together with a full tank of gas and as much food as he could eat and Dean was a regular sunshine person. It would be a good 24 hours before the itch of the hunt began to make him twitchy and eager for the road but right now he had everything he needed.

He was okay, Sam was okay, the job had been successful and they'd found a small diner with coffee cups that had little head scratchers on them that promised a free meal to those that could solve their 'unsolvable' mysteries. Luckily for Dean – although perhaps not for a diner that lived off the fact that no one had ever really bothered to or knew how to solve the damned things – he had a geeky kid brother that just kept on surprising him with that gigantic brain of his. Dean had spent twenty minutes with his forehead pretzelled up over the numeric code on his first cup, long after the contents were good and gone, before Sam had peered over his shoulder and declared that it was quite clearly the Fibonacci Sequence, whatever the hell that was, and who the hell even knew that sort of thing anyway?

Since then they'd pretty much eaten for free.

Each day of the hunt Dean had brought his morning coffee cup back to the motel, and each day Sam had provided their meal ticket. Based on the reaction this morning though, today would be the last day that the diner would be granting their prize. After today it was time to move on. But there was still a lot of daylight left, some hours left on the room and a museum nearby that Dean had actually suggested they visit. This suggestion had sent Sam's eyebrows skyrocketing up into that silly long hair he insisted upon keeping up until the point where he'd realised the 'museum' was actually a private collection of supposedly genuine artillery and both civil and great war era weaponry, and that this was kind of cool.

Dean opened the motel door with his foot - arms laden with bags - and kicked the door shut again, depositing them on his rumpled bed. Sam's own bed was neatly tucked and made, his bag packed and set against the wall and Dean couldn't help but allow himself a private eyeroll at how OCD his little brother could be. The bathroom door opened as he was digging out two breakfast burritos (both for him) and his little brother emerged in a cloud of steam, sort of like some 80s hair metal star except without the dry ice and nowhere near as awesome.

"Go for it, mensa" he grinned, chucking Sam the cup he'd emptied on the way over. This had become a morning ritual that had Dean part entertained, part leaping with pride at how smart his kid brother was. A ritual that Sam tolerated – feeling a little like a performing monkey – but would not complain about for hell nor heaven if it meant his big brother kept looking like him like _that_.

Neither would admit any of this to the other.

Sam caught the paper cup with one hand, the other studiously holding about his waist the towel that was the one thing between him and indecency. Sam's forehead wrinkled as he concentrated on the puzzle of the day.

"It's Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle" was the sure response, and Sam huffed. "You know anyone who knows the first thing about Google could get a free meal out of these guys in about a second"

"Google, schmoogle" Dean dismissed through a mouthful of burrito, settling in a chair as Sam abandoned the cup and went looking for clothes. "You know all this in your brain"

His tone of voice suggested that this was right up there with knowing how to be an astronaut and Sam smothered a reluctant, embarrassed smile and turned to hide the flush and shake out his jeans. Dean watched him, more due to the absolute absence of anything else to settle his focus on than anything.

Dean Winchester had watched his brother grow up; birth and even to temporary death. He'd changed baby Sammy's butt, spent endless hours of the childhood that had never really happened swimming in creeks, running under the summer sun in cornfields on the side of the highway, lying outside the trailer in a Mississippi summer because it was too damned hot to sleep in that sort of temperature inside a tin frickin can. He was with his brother 24 hours a day and had seen parts of his the younger man that most never had or ever would but it was a rare moment when he actually _looked_.

Sam was big; everyone who knew him knew that. 6'4" and completely in proportion. At some point his baby Sammy had become a man without an ounce of superfluous flesh on his frame; whipcord lean with iron hard muscles of the sort that get used and aren't just for show; a Hunter who had gained that starved, solid physique the hard way. His skin was marred by the scars of past hunts and Dean knew each and every mark on his brother's body; the stories written in his skin, the tale told by every silver etching on his….hey...!

"What the hell is that?!" Dean queried with the sort of insistency that has little brothers curling over the white sharp pain only a finger jammed in bare ribs can elicit.

"What?!" was the slightly concerned response. Sam curled over to investigate.

A twelve inch scar running vertically from rib cage to hip.

"Oh" Sam dismissed, returning his attention to his jeans. The towel was now discarded, his dignity covered, and he returned his attention for a brief moment to check the scar again. "Nix, threw me into a wrought iron fence"

"Where the hell was I?"

"Flu" was the simple, shrugged response. "I'd be surprised if you remember it Dean, you were pretty out of it. Dad and I had to leave you with Pastor Jim"

Dean muttered, not satisfied by this. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the silver patterns anew.

"That one?" was the polite request, finger pointing this time instead of jabbing. He wasn't that pleased at the idea of injuries – past or present – that he hadn't known about.

Sam turned his attention to another scar under his right bicep; slightly purple and wide enough to suggest stitches having been needed but not supplied at the time. Sam actually huffed a laugh this time.

"Barb wire fence" he laughed. "Running away from that insane horse in Iowa. Thought it was a Kelpie; turns out it was just kinda cranky. Didn't appreciate being doused in that godawful 'cleansing' goop Dad brewed up, either"

Dean had to laugh this time. That one he did remember. The 'Sammy got hurt and I wasn't there' tension – ten years past or not – drained out of him like an exhale and he pointed again.

"That one?"

"That was you, Dean"

"Huh?!"

Sam grinned – a heartbreakingly young grin, like only he could pull off – and glanced at the scar on his collarbone (as much as one can glance at one's own collarbone)

"Sword of Omens, Nevada, 1989"

Dean burst out into a hearty guffaw. There was even snorting.

"Dude you were totally the chick"

"It wasn't even a proper Sword of Omens man, it was a stick. A big stick"

"Sorry Sammy" Dean admitted, still laughing heartily. Sam couldn't help but grin along with.

"Check out this one" the elder brother leaned forward and tugged his shirt up just enough to reveal a fairly obvious burn scar to his lower lumbar. This was kind of fun. "You did that"

"Not possible" Sam shook his head, unwilling to accept the possibility.

"You totally did!" was the insistent response, eyebrows high and sincere. "You were like, eight. You were trying to salt and burn that scary ass clown teeter totter in your school play area – I had to track you down in the middle of the night and stop your pyro ass"

Sam shuddered imperceptibly, not willing to admit he remembered but pretty obvious about it anyway.

"And this" Dean pulled his t-shirt up from his ribs, warming to the game. "First time Dad let you train with the katana"

Sam heaved his jeans leg up, not willing to be outdone, and gestured at a thick and faded mark on his shin.

"Cutting logs, Nebraska. You'd think such tiny hands would be more precise"

"Or that legs wouldn't be where the axe was going, Mr Spatial-Awareness" Dean countered. "What's that one?"

And the game went on.

Slashes and stabbings, the clickings and clunkings of joints made to do so by previous misadventure, knots and dents, misaligned bones, things that were meant to be straight but no longer were. There were tales of concussions and stitches administered in the small hours of endless nights by bloodstained fingers that shook with exhaustion. Boyhood pranks that had ended in whispered secret councils over the sticky tape and gauze, hissing at each other to keep it down before their father heard. Schoolyard fights and misadventures in youth moving up to hunts that had ended in limps and breaks, splints and stitches, near misses and could-have-beens.

They skipped over the fatal knot of dark scar tissue at the base of Sam's back and didn't mention the bullet hole in Dean's shoulder.

Their food was congealed and cold before they finished ("took a hit from a goddamn table for you, Dean. That Poltergeist in Maine didn't like you so much"/ "stabbed with a freakin' pencil by that douchebag Chris Cane in tenth grade – said you were an asswipe nerd ") and they were talked out, but in a good way.

They were sat on their respective beds facing each other, looking elsewhere. Smiles played about their mouths, memories dancing and flitting behind eyes far in the past. As one they turned and swung their legs up onto their beds, scooting up to rest against the far wall. Dean jabbed the remote and jeopardy came on.

A few moments and:

"What is Carbon Monoxide" Sam chimed, and it would be less annoying if he didn't sound so _bored_ when he did that.

"Dude" Dean glared at him, but the glare didn't reach his eyes. "Chris Cane was right about you"

Sam shrugged. He'd long come to terms with it.

"What is Statue" was his reply, not even looking at the tv, and got another one right.

Dean sighed and smiled, but only to himself.

Their lives were written on their skin.

The story of Sam and Dean Winchester went right down to their very bones; to the permanent markers that would be with them their whole lives – aching joints and wrists that only extended so far – and it didn't matter where life took them, how things went from here, whether they ended up at the end of this road together or not their history was written on each other. It was kind of messed up really – it certainly wasn't the way most families did things – but it was theirs and it was sacred and it could never be taken away from them. The Winchesters carried each other right down to the core, and to them this was better than a wall of photos, better than a house full of tokens and mementos and the assorted detritus of a sedentary life; this was the history of the Winchester brothers, writ plain and safe and secret. This was theirs, and it was for always.

**End**.

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MyselfOnly


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